i want some satisfaction, take me to the stars, just say oh
by LittleLostStar
Summary: It's a tale of paint chips, teacups, eloping, and embarrassing pants; this is the story of how Yuuri Katsuki marries the love of his life.


Over the course of his twenty-four years on the planet earth, there have been many topics which have been given great attention and concern in the annals of Yuuri Katsuki's memory. Anxiety will do that to you; strong and swift-moving neural currents will erode paths through your mind, creating channels and chasms and canyons depending on how strongly you've thought about something.

Exhibit A for the jury: the triple axel. It's Yuuri's favourite jump _now_ , and he supposes he should be plenty proud of it, but it only got to that place because of literally years of thinking about it. Every moment of the day, especially when on the ice, his mind was racing through the particulars of the triple axel: the takeoff, the pull of the arms into the chest, the way his left knee tended to bend awkwardly in the air just enough to throw him off balance if he wasn't really careful about it, the terrifying moment when his vision blurred and he had to set up for a clean landing in a state of near-blindness, and all the ways he could fuck it up and destroy his dreams forever. For about two years, single time Yuuri did a triple axel, he would think about all of these things in rapid succession. It only really stopped once he began to go for the quad toe loop, at which point the entire process began over again, carving a whole new path through his poor mind.

Skating is exhausting in and of itself, but skating with anxiety is fucking ridiculous. It's a testament to Yuuri's dedication to the sport and complete lack of ability to love himself that he's still in the game.

The point is, he frets over certain things a lot, and those things shape his mind. For Yuuri, the mental channel called "skating" is the size of the planet Jupiter; the one called "making a fool of myself oh my god why did I do the thing come on Yuuri we talked about this" is roughly the size of the known universe.

And the mental channel called "weddings" is about the width of a human hair.

He's never given it much thought, honestly. Intense social anxiety combined with a rigorous training schedule meant that Yuuri spent his childhood dreaming (read: being terrified) of gold medals and Grand Prix wins, rather than cake toppers and themed invitations. It just simply hasn't been a thing on his radar, right up to the moment where he saw a jewelry store in a market square in Barcelona and proceeded to let out a strangled yelp and completely black out, and then the next thing he knew he was standing on the steps of a cathedral putting a ring on Victor goddamn Nikiforov's finger.

Whoops.

But even then, after Victor goes and announces to the whole _world_ that they're engaged and throws down a gauntlet that they'll get married after Yuuri wins gold because _no pressure thanks a whole lot Victor A coaching there_ _bud_ —even then, a wedding isn't on Yuuri's mind. First there's the Grand Prix final, and the completely hilarious gibberish fact that he beat Victor Nikiforov's world record, which requires about two hours of hyperventilating in a hotel bathroom in order to fully comprehend. Then there's Victor asking Yuuri to move to St. Petersburg and Yuuri saying _yes_ before he even has a chance to properly have a panic attack about it, so he has to panic _and_ pack at the same time, and then there's _unpacking_ and getting used to training in Russia and trying to learn Russian and being told that the phrase he's been using as "Hello, nice to meet you" is in fact "I'm a big fat pork cutlet bowl who cries anytime my stupid boyfriend looks at me," because Yurio is perhaps not the best option for a free Russian tutor.

It's a weird life he lives. He's always accepted that. But as time goes on, Yuuri finds that he starts to think about things—well, not less, but _differently_.

It starts out with his first dreaded panic attack in Victor's—er, _their_ —apartment. Yuuri is shooing Makkachin away from the breakfast table and he knocks a teacup onto the floor where it shatters into a million pieces. It's Victor's _favourite_ teacup, because it's shaped like a poodle.

In that moment, Yuuri's mind shatters into a million pieces too, and the first thing he manages to think is _I cannot let Victor see me cry_. Victor's seen him cry dozens (okay, hundreds) of times, but this one feels different. Yuuri has broken Victor's favourite mug, and now it's all over. As he stumbles away from the kitchen and squeezes himself into the bedroom closet, pulling his knees to his torso in order to try and keep the awful feelings from bursting out of his chest, Yuuri knows it's not just about the mug; it's that he's been waiting for this, walking around on eggshells in an apartment that he hasn't let himself call home, because there has to be a shoe waiting to drop. In this case, that shoe is a hideous ceramic teacup shaped like a dog's face.

This beautiful dream has been too good to be true, and now he's completely fucked it up just like he knew he would, and it's all over. In the first few moments of weightlessness before the full-blown panic descends, Yuuri finds that he's pulling off a fairly impressive Zen-level acceptance of this fact, because _of course_ it was going to happen. And then the waves of hurt slam into him and bowl him over anyway.

Victor is an absolute rock star about it. For all that he says he doesn't know how to handle people crying around him, he seems to have learned what to do with his (soon-to-be-ex? Oh _god_ ) fiance. He crawls into the closet to sit next to Yuuri, but he doesn't touch him, sensing—correctly—that Yuuri is roughly as stable as a sealed bottle of diet soda containing several hundred Mentos candies. He is patient and sweet, he doesn't say anything until Yuuri asks ( _begs_ ) him to, and when he does open his mouth the first thing Victor says is: "I'm not breaking up with you."

Yuuri stops mid-hyperventilation and bursts out laughing. He laughs until the tear tracks on his face are refreshed by tears of hysterical joy, and he throws himself into Victor's arms and sobs for what seems like two hours, until the tension he's been carrying in his shoulders bleeds away and leaves him wobbly and weary and definitively _at home_ for the first time in months and months. The next morning, after he wakes up in the circle of Victor's arms, Yuuri finally unpacks his very last box: the medals and trophies he's won over the course of his career.

And so time goes on. Yuuri's anxiety never goes away, of course, but now his mind carves different paths, and he has a hiking buddy to traverse them. He gets better at asking for what he needs and telling Victor what he wants. They have an actual fight, with yelling and slammed doors and instant forgiveness as soon as they both see how much they're upsetting Makkachin. Yuuri feels more and more like the best version of himself with every passing day. One night, as Yuuri slurps up the last of his udon, Victor casually asks if they should start planning a wedding. And Yuuri says _okay_ , because he's been landing quad flips on a regular basis and this new thing where he openly communicates with his fiance is going swimmingly so far, so how hard could a wedding be?

* * *

Weddings are much harder than quad flips.

They're much harder than skating, actually. At the end of the day, figure skating is like maybe thirty moves, if you really get granular about the specific choreographic stuff, and it's just a matter of putting those moves into two new-ish sequences and practicing those six or so combined minutes until they're carved into your very bones. And then you go out in a sparkly costume and try your best not to fuck it up, and then you go back and do it all over again a few weeks later.

Weddings, by contrast, are almost immediately overwhelming. Victor reassures Yuuri that they'll hire a wedding planner who will take care of everything, but he neglects to mention the not-insignificant fact that they have to actually choose a wedding planner, and there are apparently fucking _hundreds_ of people who are more than happy to descend upon two gentlemen in need of a marriage ceremony and fling all sorts of frilly nonsense at them under the guise of interviewing for the job. Yuuri sits through ten meetings with an assortment of women all named either Anna, Ana, or Anya before his eyes glaze over and his brain tries to make a run for it through his ear canal. He begs Victor to just pick the person he likes best, and when Victor's face falls Yuuri knows it's because he just wants the best possible wedding for _both_ of them, and here comes Yuuri Katsuki to give up before they've even started because he's paralyzed by _one_ choice.

Yuuri can stand a lot of things, including stubbed toes, heartburn, and picking up after Makkachin on a walk. He can't stand to see Victor look upset for even one millisecond, so he grits his teeth and chooses the most memorable and sane-seeming An(n)(y)a and calls it a day, figuring that the hardest part is over for now.

He is extremely wrong.

Upon accepting the job, Anya immediately wants to know what colour scheme Victor and Yuuri want for the wedding. And when Yuuri's answer is "I have no idea," her eyes light up with positively _demented_ glee and she proceeds to absolutely bury them in paint chips. Thousands of paint chips, with more colours than Yuuri thought possible, in shades so subtle that he starts to suspect that Anya may just be fucking with them when she coos over a shade of purple called Grape Kiss but rejects one called Amethyst even though they are _the exact same shade of purple_. Worst of all, Victor is apparently in on this particularly ridiculous joke at the expense of Yuuri's sanity, except he likes Amethyst and spits venom at the mere mention of Grape Kiss.

Yuuri finds a grey hair in the mirror the next morning.

After the great purple debate is sorted (they go with Amethyst but capitulate to Anya's insistence that they pair it with one specific shade of off-white, which, sure), they have to pick the venue. And the floral arrangements. And the meal options. And the invitations. And the suits. And the wedding party. And start making an invite list, sorting people into _primary_ and _secondary_ groups—primary will be invited first, and secondary will be invited once the first round of 'We Regretfully Decline' RSVPs come in. This idea alone sends Yuuri into paroxysms of panic; he can vividly imagine walking into the room at his own wedding only to be greeted by the judgmental eyes of every single person from the secondary group, because they'll all _know_ , of course they will, and they'll hate him for it.

They get the invites sorted only after several nights of sobbing and sake, and Anya accepts the lists with her mouth set in a thin line and immediately asks about seating arrangements.

Yuuri wonders if there's an injury he can fake that will get him out of wedding planning but let him keep skating.

Things start getting frustrating _everywhere_ . Victor snaps at Yuuri for leaving a few pans in the sink to soak even though he's done it dozens of times before, and Yuuri flubs his quad salchow so badly that Victor insists he be checked out by the Team Russia doctor. One morning, after three straight days of arguing about Merlot versus Malbec, Yuuri has to stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from groaning out loud when he realizes that Victor forgot to buy milk _again_ , and Victor notices and snipes something about how _that's the first non-food thing you've put in your mouth in a while_ and they have a fight that isn't about the milk or the lack of sex but is actually about the poor quality of that passive-aggressive dig. At least that's what Yuuri insists, but he knows it's about so much more than that, and he knows that Victor knows it too. The fight at least resolves in some really amazing makeup sex—and, in Victor's defense, it's the first sex they've had in at least five weeks—and as Yuuri lies spent and sweaty in Victor's arms he stares up at the ceiling and realizes that he feels calm for the first time in months.

"Let's get married," he says absently.

Victor nuzzles his nose into Yuuri's hair. "We are," he murmurs back, and the moment is so sweet and perfect that Yuuri falls in love with him all over again, which is just as well because there's a completely ridiculous plan forming inside his dumb brain—a new mental channel being carved not out of anxiety but out of something far more exciting. Yuuri sits up.

"No, Victor," he replies, unable to stop the grin from spreading across his face. "Let's get married. Today."

Victor sits up too, tilting his head slightly like he does anytime he's confused. "Yuuri, that's—we picked a date for next—"

"—June, yeah, I know," Yuuri finishes. He climbs over to straddle his fiance's lap. "Victor, listen to me. Wedding planning is _miserable_. I'm not happy, and I don't think you are either."

Victor scoffs. "Of course I'm happy. We're making it a special day."

Forty-eight hours ago, this phrase would have sent Yuuri into a seething ball of frustration and contained rage. Now, with endorphins pumping through his veins, he laughs.

"Are we?" he asks, searching Victor's eyes for an answer. "Is it going to be special because of the amethyst colour scheme? Or the embossed RSVP cards? Or the wine? Or sitting Michele Crispino next to Emil Nikola?"

"...yes?" but even as Victor says it, Yuuri can see he doesn't mean it.

"So you're saying that marrying me would only be special if we could sit and watch Emil and Michele flirt with each other for four hours and not do anything about it?"

Victor cracks up. "I mean, _nothing_ is special if that isn't happening," he giggles, before his face falls again. "But it's our friends and family. We love them."

"Victor." Yuuri should be terrified of what he's saying but he can't stop smiling. "I love you. I want to marry you, and I don't care what we're wearing or where anyone sits."

This earns him a kiss, sweet and drowsy. "Same," Victor finally admits, and Yuuri actually feels him relax as he says it.

"Then let's do it. Let's go down to the courthouse today and get married. Let's just be married, and throw a big dumb party for everyone later. But let's be husbands already, for the love of god."

The colour drains from Victor's cheeks. "You're serious about this?"

Yuuri leans in and kisses him. "I don't even care if we shower," he grins. "Let's go get married in sweatpants. Let's go get married in warmup clothes. Let's get married in _skates_. I don't care. I just want to marry you." He laces his fingers with Victor's until their engagement rings click together. "Please."

Victor looks down, sheepish. "The only clean pants I have are the ones with Papa Smurf on them."

Yuuri feels his face light up. "Perfect."

They get dressed in the first things they grab: Victor in his ridiculous pants, Yuuri in Victor's old Team Russia warmup jacket that's starting to pill at the elbows. They call ahead to the courthouse only to make sure that they can bring Makkachin to serve as their Best Dog. At the absolute last minute, when they realize they need a witness, Victor runs down his contact list and texts Lilia Baranovskaya, who shows up dressed in impeccably gorgeous business dress; her eyebrows nearly disappear into her hairline when she sees the two grooms standing there, in mismatched ratty pyjamas, holding hands and cooing at each other like fashion-challenged doves. Yuuri's hair is still mussed up from sex earlier—he chokes out something about it being windy on the way over as Victor dissolves into shameless giggles at his side—and Victor has cut a crude daisy shape out of a pamphlet on civic duty he found in the lobby and pinned it to Yuuri's lapel. There's a second larger daisy perched perilously on Makkachin's head, but she shakes it off and attacks it with gusto just before they're called up to the judge's bench, requiring a full-blown chase down the courthouse hallway to ensure the poodle doesn't eat anything she's not supposed to. When they finally make it up to the officiant, Victor is wiping Makkachin's drool off on his ridiculous pants and Yuuri's stomach is aching from laughing.

And that's the story of how Yuuri Katsuki marries the love of his life.


End file.
